(Show Me) What You're Made Of
by the.eye.does.not.SEE
Summary: Claire is given a chance to make good on her promise to kill Emma; Joe sacrifices his most loyal acolyte in an attempt to connect with his wife. Rated M for violence, spoilers for 1x12 inside.


**Characters**: Claire Matthews, Emma Hill, Joe Carroll

**Rating:** M, violence

**Universe**: _The Following_, an extension and escalation of Claire and Emma's fight scene in 1x12 with a slight AU: Claire has been pushed to and past her breaking point.

**Author's Note:** I don't know what to call this. A crack-fic, I guess? I don't know. This popped into my head as I was going to sleep after seeing Monday's ep.

**Summary**: Claire is given a chance to make good on her promise to kill Emma; Joe sacrifices his most loyal acolyte in an attempt to connect with his wife.

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"_Who knows what someone is capable of after they've been pushed around as much as Claire has."_

—_Natalie Zea_

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She rubbed her thumb against the hilt of the blade, feeling the grip of the weapon as she acclimated to the feel of it in her hand. It was no different, really, than holding a kitchen knife. She cut up vegetables, fruit, bagels, and bread every day. She sliced into meat on a weekly basis.

She could do this.

It really was no different.

"Go on, Claire."

She closed her eyes as the Devil by her shoulder whispered in her ear. _Go on, Go on, Go on, _like an encouraging sports coach. _Go on, you can do it. I believe in you, champ._

She opened her eyes, nearly smiling at how perversely apt the comparison was. All she had to do was look into Joe's bright eyes beside her to know that he _did _believe in her. He _did _expect her to do it. He _did _want her to succeed.

Or maybe she was imagining things.

After all, she could hear Ryan's disembodied voice in her head, too, nearly as clear as Joe's beside her, despite the fact that he was nowhere near. _He_ sang a much different tune, however. _Don't. Don't. Don't. _He was practically yelling at her, demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing and why she had let things get this far.

She ignored him, unable to answer the question even in her own head, and focused her attention on the petite woman nearly cowering in front of her. She could see the fear in Emma's eyes—there was no mistaking her for gentle-hearted Denise anymore—and she relished it. This woman who had lived with her, and lied to her, and brainwashed her son—for _two years_—was finally getting her comeuppance, and Claire was going to be the one delivering it. Emma had kidnapped her son and Claire was going to kill her for it.

_No, you're not. You can't kill her. This isn't you, Claire. Walk away. Don't do this. Don't._

She pursed her lips, firming up her grip on the knife as she fought ignore what she knew was common sense forcing its way into her consciousness. What did it matter anymore? Everyone and everything in this small, crazed word she now lived in were all too far gone to abide by so mundane a concept as 'common sense' anymore.

What was it that Ryan had called all this just a week ago? A game? Well, it was. She hadn't wanted to admit it at the time—it had seemed an insane and cruel notion then—but now she could see his blunt truth for what it was. This _was_ a game—to Ryan, to Joe, to all the pawns and players involved. It was a game of life and death and whether or not Claire Matthews lived to play another day, she would make sure Emma Hill lost—here and now.

She finally had the power. She finally had the upper hand.

She _could_ and she _would_ do this.

"Don't hesitate now, dear. You've come so far."

She didn't even flinch when she felt Joe wrap his arm around her waist and steady her hand with his. She was too focused on the woman in front of her, the one backing herself into a corner with each step she took. The one she was going to kill.

Her pale, pointed chin shook as her back finally hit the wall that had been looming behind her. Claire could see her fingertips shaking as she pressed herself into the junction of the two walls. She shrank back into those wood panels like she wanted to disappear into them, and as she did so, her eyes jumped frantically between Claire, the knife in Claire's hand, and Joe standing beside her. Her wide, disbelieving eyes pleaded with them both, with the knife, even, as she directed her words to her leader.

"Joe, p—please. What are you—"

"_Silence_."

The single word shot out of Joe's mouth like a whip, and Claire felt a smile flicker on her lips as she saw Emma's mouth fall open a little further in shock. She could see the girl's body freeze—or perhaps the better word was _seize_—as she finally seemed to realize and accept what was happening. Joe wasn't going to save her and she had no way to save herself.

_It's unavoidable, _Claire wanted to tell her. _I'm going to kill you. _She ran over the words in her head again and again, but she didn't feel the need to say them aloud. She knew it and Emma knew it, and that was all that mattered. She'd never had Joe's flair for theatrics, anyway. It was enough for her that they all knew what was coming. No need to make a show of it.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest, growing faster and faster with each step forward she took, but it didn't scare her. She didn't pause or falter and the knife never slipped from her grip. _Don't hesitate now, dear._ Joe's encouraging whispers echoed in her mind as his warm hand moved to cup her arm, guiding and supporting her as she neared her goal.

Claire took a breath, clutching the knife more tightly in her right hand as she focused on the task at hand. She was only mere feet away now, and Emma had nowhere to run. Her only escape was death and Claire was standing by—ready and willing to offer it to her.

Ryan's voice, his warnings and his pleas for her to stop and think, faded to the background of her consciousness as she neared her victim, neared her first kill, and it was then that she allowed Joe's loudening entreaties to consume her thoughts. Ryan had never killed anyone—not like this—so he wouldn't understand what it was like. He didn't understand the personal touch it took—the need to feel the knife in one's own hand, the need to drive it in, the need to be_ the one _to do it—and so she shoved his advice aside. He didn't know what it was like.

Joe, on the other hand, did. Joe understood what it was like—he understood what everything was like—and, once she killed Emma, Claire knew she'd understand, too.

She practically felt like she already did.

"She took our son, don't you forget," he murmured to her, his mouth hovering somewhere just behind her head as his hand twisted lightly around her forearm to direct her. "She lied to you for two straight years. She schemed and plotted and then she _took him,_" he growled, "right from under your nose. She housed him with Jacob and Paul—you've seen them on the news; you know how many people they've hurt—Joey he was in danger every second he was with them. She nearly got him killed, again and again." She listed to Joe as he inhaled, and felt his nose brush against her hair. "How does that make you feel, love?" he whispered, lowering his voice as he bent closer to her ear. She could feel the warmth, the bulk, of his body behind hers and it made her feel strong. Just like the knife in her hand made her feel strong "What does it make you want to do?" His hands moved to rest lightly on her shoulders, and he shadowed her every movement as slowly inched forward. "Do you want to hurt her? Do you want to kill her? Tell me."

Claire inhaled sharply at the last question. _Do you want to kill her?_ No one had said that word aloud since she'd screamed it at Emma in the hallway not ten minutes ago. Hearing it again sent a thrill through her body, a tingle down her spine. Claire could feel the power she'd felt while throttling Emma again, and she gripped the knife harder, determined to finish what she'd started in the hallway.

When Roderick had pulled them apart, Claire had thrashed and clawed against him, desperate to get back to Emma, to sink her nails into Emma's flesh, and choke the life out of her tiny, despicable little body. In that frenzied moment before Joe had walked in and ordered everyone else out, Claire had wanted to kill her.

That moment still hadn't passed.

Joe had taken them both into his study; Emma still bleeding and Claire had still breathing hard. He'd locked the door and then walked to his desk, but Claire had been barely paying attention then. She'd been eyeing Emma, trying to gauge if and when she could attack again. When Joe had walked back towards her with the knife she now clutched in her hand, everything had changed.

She had stared at it, dumbstruck, as he'd walked closer to her, and a sudden spike of terror in her being superseded the exhilaration she'd felt during her fight with Emma. She couldn't believe that here and now—after everything that had happened—that Joe was just going to take a knife to her. She couldn't believe that he was just going to end things like that—all because she'd attacked Emma? Claire had tried to open her mouth—to shout or protest or beg, she didn't know—but before she could make a sound, Joe had lifted the weapon, opened his hand… and offered it to her.

"I believe I heard you say you were going to kill her, so…" The corners of his mouth had turned up in a carefree, almost whimsical smile. "Kill her. Go on, Claire. Make good on your word."

Claire breathed slowly now, keeping her inhalations and exhalations slow and measured as she let his words echo in her mind. _Kill her, Kill her, Kill her. _She was close enough now. She could see the fear in Emma's eyes—so much more acute now than before—and she could even spot her own determination reflected there as well.

She inhaled as she pulled her elbow back, pressing her thumb against the flat hilt of the knife as she felt Joe's hand slide lightly down from her shoulder to cup her forearm again in guidance. She told herself, as she thrust the knife forward, that she was doing this for Joey. Emma had put him in danger and Claire was his mother; it was Claire's job to protect him. It was her job to put an end to Emma and anyone else who wanted to harm him.

But, as she sank the knife in, it became blindingly clear that she was doing this for herself. And it felt good. It felt _so_ damn good. She actually had to close her eyes as she pulled the knife out; she felt so overwhelmed, so filled with something she couldn't identify, something that was taking her over and—

She thrust the knife in again. And again. And again.

She couldn't stop.

She could hear Emma screaming in pain and fury, and she could hear Joe talking excitedly into her ear, but none of it registered. The sound of her own breathing and the pounding of her own heart were louder than any scream, more personal than any whisper, and so she gave into them, gave into herself. She abided by their rhythm, and soon she was plunging the knife into Emma's pale flesh in time with each breath she took, with each thump of her heart.

When it was over, when she finally stopped, there wasn't a sound to be heard.

Ryan's voice had faded completely from her mind, and even Joe was silent as he stood beside her. Whether it was in shock at her actions that made him mute, or in reverence for the body that lay at their feet, Claire neither knew nor cared. It was over; Emma was dead. Claire had just killed her.

And yet nothing had changed.

She felt tendrils of fear prickle their way across her back as she realized that. Nothing—nothing except the existence of Emma who was no more—had changed. Claire was still trapped here. She was still trapped in this mansion, trapped in these woods. Her baby was still in danger. Killing Emma had ended up doing more to make her like the rest of them than to protect Joey, and though she had thought she'd attacked Emma in line with her own interests, really, she'd just been used. Again.

_Go on, Claire._

She lifted her head, her eyes tracing the smear of blood that Emma's body had left behind as it had fallen to the floor, and slowly, she turned around. Joe was waiting for her, his eyes bright and his grin wide as their gazes met.

"How did that feel?" he asked, breathless with excitement as his eyes danced around her face. He reached down, taking her free hand in his. Her other still held the knife, which was now entirely soaked in blood. "How… How do _you_ feel?" he wondered, his dark eyes searching her face.

As she stared over at him, and felt him lace his fingers through hers, she came to a decision. Nearly as suddenly as she'd decided to kill Emma earlier, she came to this decision as well. This time, though, she knew spontaneity would be on her side.

"Good," Claire replied, her chest still heaving from all the energy she'd exerted just now. "I feel… _so good_." She paused a moment to breathe, lifting her hand to brush her hair out of her face. She brought her hand away almost immediately; she'd been holding the knife in that hand and she was certain she'd left a red smear across her forehead inadvertently. She could feel the blood trickling over her forehead.

Joe smirked, confirming her suspicions as he nodded towards her. "I think you missed a spot," he pointed out. He held up his free hand, palm flat, as he glanced towards the weapon in her hand. "May I have that?"

Claire clutched the knife tighter in her hand reflexively, resisting the urge to lash out. She bit down on her lower lip, tilting her head back as she looked up at him. "Why?" she wondered softly, inching closer. "You have others; can't I keep this one? As a…" She looked down, turning the object in her hand. "As a reminder?"

A slow smile was spreading across Joe's face when she looked back up. "You want a souvenir?"

She nodded. "If you'll let me."

He smiled benevolently at her, replying at once, "Of course. In fact…" He glanced over his shoulder, lifting his free hand to point towards his desk as he turned away, and Claire took the opportunity that was presented to her. She knew she wouldn't get a second chance.

She gripped the knife in her hand, clutched it even harder than she had with Emma, and drove it forward, deep into his stomach without even a split-second's hesitation. She heard him gasp sharply as the blade cut through the fabric of his turtleneck, pierced the flesh of his abdomen, and cut through layers and layers of skin and muscle. Before he could shove her away or reach for the knife himself, she pulled it out and plunged it back in. She repeated the process, over and over again. She could feel his blood as it sprayed from his body; it was warm when it hit her, but cooled almost immediately.

He didn't scream like Emma had. No, he hardly made a sound. Claire was sure the racket that had been Emma's death could've been heard all through the mansion, but because she was Emma—and because Joe had been with her—no one came running. Not one person.

Now, as she drove the knife into his flesh again and again, she did so quickly, ever looking over her shoulder, worried someone might walk in. The moment the thought had entered her mind to go after Joe, as she'd stood over Emma's dead body, she'd expected Roderick or Jacob or another one of Joe's other lackeys to come in and forcibly subdue her. No one had and no one did.

Her she stood, killing him—_killing him_—and somehow none of his devotees were any the wiser. Even Joe himself didn't seem to have caught on yet. He was still staring at her with those wide, confused eyes, with his mouth slightly agape. She guessed it hadn't dawned on him yet. She guessed he'd never suspected just how far she might tip once pushed over the edge.

Emma hadn't been enough. Had he really expected her to be? Had just _one girl _been enough for him?

She stared down at him as he fell, first to his knees, then on his back, and wondered what to say. She was very conscious of the fact that he was taking his last breaths, and that this was her last time to say any number of the thousand things she'd wanted to scream at him over the past decade, but she stayed silent. There was nothing for her to say now that would make any difference.

Like Emma, he would be dead. Like Emma, she would have killed him. Nothing else mattered except those two facts.

She watched, waiting, for him to finally let go. It took some time—certainly not as long as Emma—but it took long enough to put Claire on her guard. When his mouth finally went slack and his eyes finally went dim, she stepped back, untangling her hand from his, shaking him off, and moving towards the door.

She held the knife tight in her hands as she neared it, struggling to listen closely for sounds from the exterior. She couldn't hear anything. She waited—one minute, two… She finally pushed open the door, with great trepidation, but to her surprise, there was no one standing there waiting for her. There was no one on watch to spot her; there was no angry mob like there had been this morning.

She didn't pause to delight in her good luck. At best, it would only be momentary. She ran—sprinted—towards the front door. She knew her shoes were echoing against the marble floors, but she didn't care. There would be no way to hide once someone saw what she'd done, and by then, she had to be as far away as possible. It was better to run and be loud than to walk silently and get caught.

"Mom!"

She froze in place when she heard Joey's shout, terrified he would draw the attention of others and frantic, for she couldn't tell where the sound had come from.

"Over here!"

She whipped her head around, sucking in a breath of relief when she saw him on the stairs, about halfway down. She scanned the upper landings, but there seemed to be no one there, either. As quick as she could, she made her way up the steps, grabbing Joey's hand and hurrying with him down to the front hall.

She could feel her heart pounding in her chest again as she faced the door, for she knew that this was the only moment that mattered. If she and Joey didn't get out alive right now, they never would. This day had been built upon chance, and she knew—just like she had known when she'd decided to attack Emma and when she'd decided to kill Joe—that she would never get a second chance. This was it; this was her one chance to escape. She had to make it count, or she would spend the rest of her life being reminded—every day—that she almost got out.

She could hear a buzzing in her ears now, louder than her beating heart, and she shook her head, trying to get rid of it. She had to focus. Emma was gone and Joe was gone and she had Joey now. She could not afford to be distracted by what she was sure was coming insanity, getting ready to destroy her. She squeezed her eyes shut for a split second before mustering her courage and moving towards the door. The closer she came to it, the louder the sound grew, but she ignored it, continuing to move and finally managing to put her hand on the knob.

It wasn't until she'd wrenched the door open—whereupon she was blinded by the bright sunlight outside—that she realized what the buzzing was. She shut her eyes reflexively against the glare, and when she opened them again, the bright light was gone.

There was no bloodied knife in her hand. There was no Joey by her side.

The alarm clock on the bedside table buzzed again, and she stared at it, feeling the same sort of rage that had filled her up when she'd first attacked Emma consume her now. She reached out, but instead of tapping the snooze button like she had every other day since she'd arrived here, she smacked the device off the table and sent it flying across the room. It smashed against the floor, bounced, and skidded across the polished wood panels before coming to rest on the far side of the room.

Claire stared at it, lying chipped and broken on the floor in the corner of the room, and tried not to see anything else. Nonetheless, the visions, the almost-memories, invaded her mind. Every time she blinked, she couldn't help but picture Emma's body there, bloodied and ravaged, and paler than ever. Claire barely had to concentrate to picture Joe lying there along with her, his abdomen pierced to shreds.

She shut her eyes, burying her head against the pillow beneath her and holding back a groan as she bit down hard on her lower lip. She didn't even know what day it was, or how long she'd been here, but already it was clear that she was going insane. By her internal count, she was somewhere between one and two weeks, but did that mean anything? It was only her best guess, and time seemed to drag on here more slowly than she'd ever experienced, so her best guess was probably wrong.

She rolled over, pressing the palms of her hands against her eye sockets and trying to rid her mind of memories from her nightmare. She chuckled sharply at herself at that, wondering what her previous night's dream should be called. Was it really a nightmare? It had been harrowing, yes, but hadn't it also fulfilled her wildest, sickest, and most sought-after fantasies?

She bit down harder on her lip, torn, and tasted blood as she broke the skin. Her teeth had gnawed their way through the thin skin thin of her lip nearly as easily as she'd used that knife to pierce both Emma and Joe's flesh. She ran her tongue over the wound, tasting the mixture of metal and salt as she massaged the area.

Though she knew she should, she couldn't quite force the image of dead Emma, or dead Joe, from her mind. She couldn't make herself erase the feel of that knife in her hand, for it was bonded to her being like muscle memory.

And worse, she couldn't even feel sorry about any of it.

If she was being honest with herself, there was a very clear reason why she didn't want to forget, a very clear reason why she took pains to keep those memories alive in the back of her mind. It was the reason she'd dreamed them in the first place, the reason she'd been so angry to wake up to this reality again.

It was because—no matter how wrong she knew it was—that sick dream had, it really had, made her feel just… _so good_.

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**Author's Note: **Thank you so much for reading. I'll be honest, this one took me forever to write. When the idea initially hit me, I thought it would be incredibly easy to write... And it was for a while. But then I got further into it, it ended up taking all day. Even through the writer's block, though, these darker one-shots are turning out to be incredibly entertaining to write for me, so I hope you enjoyed reading it.

I would LOVE to hear your thoughts in a review below, especially considering just how "out there" I'm sure this fic came across to a lot of people. I'd like to hear how it went and what you thought of it all. Again, thank you for reading.

Please review! :)

**EDIT: Guys. GUYS. I called it! You go, Claire!**


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